Pitbull: He plays hard on the field...He plays harder off it. (6 page)

I swallowed an exasperated sigh. "How did I hurt your feelings?"

Peter's face went blank as he tried to remember, his eyes looking diagonally up and to the right. He paused for a few seconds before speaking, his words slurred. "You were rude to me, just then. About the glass ball thing I think."

"How much have you had to drink, Peter?" I said.

His face flashed with anger. "It's always about the drink with you isn't it? You're a bitch you know, just like the rest of them."

I really didn't want to get drawn into another debate about the fairer sex with Peter Cross. God knows I'd listened enough times as he'd abused women, telling me how they'd ruined his life and were good for nothing but doing what they should in the bedroom and kitchen.

I decided to break the news to him that I wouldn't be able to see him again.

"Listen, Peter," I said, trying to keep my voice as soft as possible. "I think I've failed you."

"No shit, Sherlock," he spat.

I gave him my understanding nod, and dropped my eyes briefly. "I think you'd benefit from seeing somebody else," I said gently, re-establishing eye contact with him. "I've got a few names and phone numbers of some people who may be better able to help you than I am."

Peter Cross's face tightened with rage. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl. The muscles in his jawbone tightened and he fixed me with a stare that made my blood run cold.

"You're getting rid of me?" he said, his fist clenching and his eye twitching.

"I'm not
getting rid of you
, Peter," I said, wondering if I should buzz Sandra to come and join me — Peter was angrier than I'd ever seen him, and I knew he had a record of violence. "I'm sending you on to the next level of care."

His shoulders tensed, and spittle flew through the air as he shouted. "You're all the fucking same, everyone always wants me gone. Well,
you're
not getting rid of
me
.
I'm
getting rid of
you
!"

Peter threw himself across the table with a turn of speed that took me by surprise. I used my feet to push myself backwards in my seat but he was too quick. He hit me with enough force to take the air from my lungs, and he grabbed me by my shoulders, shaking me violently as he continued his verbal abuse.

"Bitch!" he shouted, his fingers digging into my arms. "You're a fucking bitch!"

I tried to push him off me, but he was too strong. The smell of alcohol was sickly, and I screamed for help, hoping Sandra could hear me through the thick wooden door.

I struggled desperately, but we were so mismatched in both size and strength, that I couldn't do anything but let him finish what he'd started. I pummelled his head with punches as hard as I could muster, but they seemed to have no effect on the booze fuelled lunatic.

I screamed again and heard my office door being thrown open.
Thank God, Sandra was here, perhaps the two of us could overpower him.

Then, as suddenly as he'd thrown himself over my desk, he was flying backwards through the air, his face turning from anger to fear. A male voice, deep and angry, echoed in the small confines of my office. "Get off her!"

A large man with his back to me was advancing towards the terrified form of Peter Cross, who was sprawled on his back, his hands in front of him. The big man pulled his fist back over his shoulder as he readied a punch.

I stood up quickly, and shouted. "No! Don't hurt him, please."

The man who'd saved me hesitated, but began to lower his fist. Instead of punching Peter, he grabbed him by the loose clothing around his neck and dragged him to his feet.

He turned to look at me while holding Peter at arm's length, and my stomach flipped. I'd thought the voice was familiar. He looked different with no stubble, but it was obvious that it was Jack Bailey. Pit Bull. The man whose bed I'd shared, and then left in the morning without even a goodbye.

I regained my composure. Now was not the time for questions about why he was in my office, I could deal with that later.

Jack stared at me. "What shall I do with him?" he said.

Chapter Eight

Jack

It had already been an interesting day when I arrived at the psychologist's office. I'd spent two hours walking dogs at the local dog and donkey sanctuary, and had spent thirty minutes of that time chasing a tiny cross breed through thick undergrowth as it made a bid for freedom.

I'd never intended the whole dog thing to go on for longer than a couple of visits, but the little guys had managed to find a place in my heart, and now it was a once or twice a week affair.

I parked in the road outside the building. It was to be my third and final attempt at finding a psychologist. The first two attempts had been failures. The first one I'd seen had asked me to leave when I'd refused her point blank demands to totally give up alcohol, and I'd left the second appointment under my own steam when the elderly man with leather patches on the sleeves of his tweed jacket had asked me to close my eyes and imagine I was a soaring bird. That was the type of bullshit that I didn't need.

I held no misguided beliefs that the final psychologist on my list would be any different, but I'd finally been persuaded by Harry, and Andy, to give it a try. That would give Harry the ammunition he needed to at least attempt to keep me at the club.
I would be seen to be trying, as my coach had said.

I heard shouting the second I entered the building, and began climbing the painted white wooden staircase.

I ascended the stairs quickly, and opened the frosted glass door that led to a small waiting room with a reception desk tucked away in the corner next to a cold water dispenser, and a tall plant that looked as if the only water it saw was the rain through the large pane glass window behind the desk.

A middle aged woman with a large perm that looked as if it could withstand hurricane force winds, was scurrying towards the door that had
E.Slater - Psychologist,
displayed on it in large brass letters.

"Is everything alright?" I said, as the shouting reached fever pitch, and a female screamed.

"I don't know," the woman said, knocking on the door. Without waiting for a response, she flung it open, revealing a scene that made my blood boil.

A short overweight man was leaning across the large desk, shaking the woman behind it by her shoulders as she attempted to fend him off with flailing arms.

It wasn't just
any
woman though. It was Emily, the girl from the previous weekend. The girl who had left my hotel room while I slept, the girl who I'd not been able to forget.

Anger washed over me in a wave of fierce intensity, and I crossed the room in three long strides, my arm already outstretched to grab the man by the scruff of his miserable neck.

My fingers gripped the collar of his grimy jacket, and I pulled as hard as I could, ripping him from Emily and sending him careering through the air and into a crumpled pile on the wooden floor. "Get off her!" I shouted.

He mumbled something and put his arms out to protect himself as I advanced on him, my rage almost out of control and my fist already being drawn over my right shoulder as I took aim at his bloated red nose.

Emily shouted from behind me. "No! Don't hurt him, please."

It took every little bit of self-discipline I had to lower my fist. Everything I was as a man screamed at me to punish the squirming bastard on the floor for laying a hand on a woman.

Instead of punching him, I grabbed him by his collar and lifted him to his feet, the smell of alcohol on his breath turning my stomach.

"You piece of shit!" I yelled, my face almost touching his. "Did your mother never teach you not to lay a fucking hand on a woman!"

"I'm sorry," he whimpered, "please, I'm sorry."

I turned to Emily, and saw recognition flash across her face as she saw mine. "What shall I do with him?" I said.

The other woman put her hand on Emily's shoulder. "Oh my God," she said, "are you alright?"

Emily smiled at her, the wide mouth I remembered so well, trembling with shock. "I'm fine, Sandra," she said, "really."

"Can you see him out for me please?" Emily said, addressing me.

The piece of shit wriggled in my hand and I lifted him further off the floor so he stood on his tiptoes, his head hung forward and his shoulders slumped. "What about the police?" I said, "shit like this needs to be locked up."

Emily shook her head vigorously. "No police," she said, "please, just see him out."

"But, Emily," said the other woman — Sandra. "You have to —"

"No police," said Emily, a little more firmly. "I don't need the hassle."

I gripped the man tighter. "Come on," I said, dragging him towards the door.

"I'm sorry, Doc," he said, twisting his body to look at Emily.

"For the last time, Peter, I'm not a doctor," said Emily, adjusting her crumpled clothing. "I'm a psychologist."

"Well, I'm sorry anyway," he said, his feet bouncing along the floor as I dragged him.

When I'd manhandled him down the stairs and out of the door, I slammed him up against the brick wall of the building, his breath leaving him in clouds of foul smelling alcohol fumes.

Ignoring the stares of passers-by, I put my hand on his throat. "If you ever come back here," I said, my nose almost touching his. "Or I ever hear of you doing anything like this again, I'll come and find you okay, and believe me, you don't want that."

He nodded. "I promise," he murmured, "you'll never see me again."

"I'd better not."

I sent him on his way with a kick up his arse, and watched him as he staggered along the pavement until he turned into a side street and disappeared.

I re-entered the building and was greeted by Sandra on her way down the stairs. She was struggling with the big buttons on her coat, and her face was looking a little more coloured than it had been when I'd left her in the office.

"Thank you," she said, "I don't know what we'd have done without you."

"No thanks is necessary," I said, "is she okay?"

"She's a feisty one," Sandra smiled, "she's fine. She asked me to send you up."

We said our goodbyes and I found Emily on her hands and knees in her office picking up chunks of glass.

"Do you need a hand?" I said, standing behind her.

"No, I'll finish it later," she said, getting to her feet and rubbing dust from her hands. "It was a paperweight. An antique. A present from my mother."

"Sorry about that."

"It's fine. At least I'm okay. Thanks to you." She gestured at a seat. "Sit down, Jack, and tell me why you're here."

"I'm here because I've got an appointment." I glanced at my watch. "And you're running… almost ten minutes late."

She flicked through the pages of a large black leather bound diary. "I've got an appointment with a mister Reynolds," she said, reading from the page. "Not a Mister Bailey, or a Mister Pit Bull."

"Yes, that's me," I said, "my club booked the appointment in a fake name, but you know who I am now, obviously," I smiled.

"I knew who you were the morning I left your hotel room. That's
why
I left. It transpires that you have a bit of a reputation which you failed to tell me about while you were seducing me."

"You didn't
need
much seducing," I said, raising an eyebrow. "I seem to remember that you were very into the whole thing."

She winced and shuffled in her seat, rolling her shoulders.

"Are you okay?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm just a little sore. It could have been far worse if you hadn't shown up, though." She fixed me with a stare, and her eyes had the same dizzying effect on me that they'd had the first time I'd seen her. "But just
why
did you show up, Jack? Or should I call you Pit Bull?"

I laughed. "Leave Pit Bull for the newspapers. You can call me Jack, and I'm here because
apparently
I need some help."

"
Apparently
you need some help? I did a little research on you when I found out who you were, and I'd say you
definitely
need some help. Fighting, drinking, drugs." Her face hardened and her eyes narrowed. "And
womanising
." She practically spat the last sentence across the desk.

She rolled her eyes as I laughed. "All the women that I've had…encounters with, have done so willingly. Why do they insist on calling it womanising? I call it spreading the love," I said.

She closed her diary and slid it a few inches in front of her. "Well, you can call your problems whatever you like, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Can't or won't?" I said, "there's a difference."

Emily crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. The light streaming in from the window behind her illuminated the strands of red that fell down the side of her face, and I realised again, just how beautiful she was. "Look, Jack. I think it's admirable that you're trying to turn your life around —"